


at hallowed ground, holding hands

by johniaurens



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Domestic, Laurens centric, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 04:56:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16340210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johniaurens/pseuds/johniaurens
Summary: John’s lips touch his forehead and he wonders how long he can stay just like that before it becomes too much. His mouth stays on his skin and the seconds don’t stop. Alex puts his arms around him and the seconds don’t stop. John cups his jaw with one hand and the seconds don’t stop.or ; personal demons and domestic life





	at hallowed ground, holding hands

**Author's Note:**

> title from nearer my god by foxing  
> I feel the love in suspension / And nearer my god / At hallowed ground, holding hands / Ashing cigarettes on gravestones
> 
> this isn't an elastic moods fic (shoutout to anyone whos been here long enough to remember that series) but i was editing this and i was like wow, this is like if i wrote elastic moods now

Waking up at six in the morning never gets easy. His boy between the bed and the blankets, all warm and soft, the room gradually filling with light, dust dancing in the air, regret dripping into his belly til it’s a pool big enough to fill a lake with. He dances his fingers across Alex’s shoulder blades just to feel the softness of his skin on his fingertips. Beautiful boy. Sweet boy. 

It’s just like this sometimes. The park in the sunlight. Dogs barking. Putting gasoline into the car, leaning on the door, trying not to yawn. Driving to work, drinking coffee from a white porcelain mug. Kissing his boy goodbye, sleepy in the cold of the morning, barefoot on the porch, still clinging to the front of his shirt with his nails as John starts to pull away. Two miles from home and already filled to the brim with longing. 

Not much different from his dreams. Back against a tree in the heart of the woods. This is the stomach of the town, the gut of the monster. This town, about to hear his knuckles crack, about to echo between the buildings, ricochet house to house. Metaphorically, anyway. Something something gunshots. Something something heartbreak. 

This stretch of time where everything is still half dream, half hope. Nothing is over. Everything’s only just begun. 

—

The crisp of a cold fall morning. Apples dying in their trees, wild rabbits emerging to eat the bark off them. It’s sunny in a deceiving way, like it should be warm, but it isn’t. 

“You take your meds, baby?” John asks, hands flying up to fix Alex’s collar. Patient, gentle hands. Soft fingers.

“Yeah.” Alex pulls John’s gloves out of his own coat pocket, holds onto them patiently while John inspects his work, his throat, his stubble. 

“Got your gloves.” 

Sometimes Alex speaks like a whisper. Not the volume, just the quality of it, like a dream, all wispy, his voice extending its tendrils down John’s throat all the way into his lungs and heart, awaking something heavy, something ancient and tender.

John’s lips touch his forehead and he wonders how long he can stay just like that before it becomes too much. His mouth stays on his skin and the seconds don’t stop. Alex puts his arms around him and the seconds don’t stop. John cups his jaw with one hand and the seconds don’t stop. 

“I love you,” he says, and the seconds don’t stop. Alex opens his mouth and smiles and the seconds don’t —

—

Or, in the bathroom with the lights off, sitting cross-legged on top of the dryer, the shower on. 

“Babe.” 

Just one word with infinite softness tied to it, soft, beautiful body leaning against the doorframe, backlit by the kitchen light. 

“Yeah,” he gasps out in reply. He’s so close. Only a few feet. He _wants_ so badly. It’s in his clenched fists, his gritted teeth. 

“Baby.”

“Yeah.”

It’s weird, isn’t it. Some things are just better left unsaid. Much more subjective is whether that means those things should be left unthought. Where’s the line? Where’s the line, babe? It’s weird, isn’t it, it’s so weird, just so weird, isn’t it. Pulling thoughts out of your head and back into the dirt. Pulling your thoughts out of your head and making them fall back into whatever grave they rose out of.

—

The sky is half-black half-white as they roll through the streets of Charleston with the flow of the lazy afternoon traffic, the radio turned down low, Alex sitting inches away like five foot some of electric light. He doesn’t drive so John does. This city is his. The sun is making his freckles come out like commas dotted between these two parts of his life, reminding him of the temporary nature of life. Weird how that works, commas, the way they separate lines into segments. Like the dotted lines between lanes on the highway.

This is a long drive. Longer than any he would make by his own choice. Too many intersections and roads he no longer knows. They changed the speed limit on the road off the highway towards his house. What he means is, the road towards his father’s house. One hour flight versus twelve hour drive. Guess this is just one of those things you do for love.

“Roll the windows down,” he asks. Alex looks at him, a little sideways glance, and without looking holds the buttons down with two fingers, one for each front seat window. “Please,” he says. The windows are already down. They’re already down. They’re almost there. John’s almost swallowed the thing in his throat.

—

And it’s not like he’s always just taking without giving back. It’s just — 

Sometimes that doesn’t matter. It’s just, having to ask for anything like this feels like asking too much. For Alex’s hand on his cheek. Feels dirty asking for fingers in his hair. It’s the feeling of being caught mid air between the moment of a bullet in his body and the moment of truth, the orchestra playing an acoustic rendition of a love song in minor key. The swell of the song urgent but not yet relevant. Thinking maybe if he pushes this down. Squishes it between the soft earth and the steel cap toes of his good riding boots. Maybe there will be nothing left to walk away from him. Not this time.

—

Floating face down in the swimming pool, tilting his face up just enough to breathe in through his nose every couple dozen seconds. The sun hot, the air warm, the water just barely cool. They fished out all the leaves and wildlife before getting in. Water’s all clean. Clean enough to drink, now that everything bigger than a squirrel has been cleared out, John had said, in response to which Alex scrunched up his face and laughed, like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all day in all its absurdity. 

Alex taps him on the shoulder. John flips himself over like an otter. 

“Your hair looks like seaweed like that,” Alex says, standing over him, “when you float on your front like that. It’s cool.” 

John smiles and he doesn’t know if it’s the smile Alex always says he likes or if it’s just a regular smile. If it makes his teeth look too big or his mouth too big or his face too big. His eyes weird, cheeks stretched, lips thin. One time someone told him the way he smiles makes his gums show too much. 

“Cool,” he says, “I like seaweed.”

“You’re like a selkie. With all of your coats and your hair and stuff.”

“You think I’m gonna disappear into the ocean?” 

Alex shrugs. “Guess I’ll have to hide all your coats.”

“Good luck guessing which one is the right one. Maybe that’s why I have so many.”

“To trick me?” 

John winks. “Or maybe that’s what I want you to think.” 

—

Sometimes words come out like teeth, scarce and painful. There’s only so many of them to pull out. John said that, once. Alex thinks it’s gross and delightful. He wanted John to make a print out of that. Write it down by hand and have it printed. John doesn’t think it’s that good. Alex thinks it is. 

It’s cold out. John misses Alex. It’s one of those days he can’t get close enough to him, John sitting on the floor at Alex’s feet while Alex pulls at his brain’s teeth at his desk. 

“Are they coming out?” he asks. 

“Are what coming out?” 

“Teeth.”

Alex laughs, just a quick startled laugh, like he kind of remembers but not really. Like he remembers it’s funny, but not why. “Teeth?”

“Words. Gettin’ work done?” 

Alex puts one hand in his hair, just a quick thing, a quiet thing. John tries to lean into it but he pulls his hand back almost immediately. 

“Not much.”

John kisses his calf. Alex pulls his pant leg up a little bit so John can touch the skin. He puts his hand around his ankle to rub it. The tendons. The bone. The skin and the muscle. Another kiss to his calf, half-hearted search for his heartbeat with his lips like a semi-desperate confirmation for his existence. 

—

Standing in the shower for so long it feels like hours with the water running hot until it doesn’t, the tiles and the chrome and the porcelain, Alex’s hands like a dream or not, sometimes he’s here and sometimes he’s not. The word feels still. Alex turns on the lights when he walks in, the water starts running cold, John tilts his head back, face turned up towards the shower head, mouth open, lukewarm water filling his throat and mouth, flowing back out over his teeth like an overflowing sink. 

“Gross,” Alex comments. He takes John’s towel off the towel rack, opens it up in his hands, shoulder level, arm’s length apart. John shuts off the water. 

“Was gonna come out anyway,” he mumbles, nestling into Alex, careful to only touch him through the towel. 

“Yeah? Because the water got cold?” 

“Maybe.” 

Alex grabs one corner of the towel, pats over John’s face with it. Water droplets all gone. The world comes back into focus gradually, like waking up from a dream. Alex wraps the towel around his body, rubs his hands up and down his sides over the towel. John stands there with his hair dripping onto the floor, thinking about crawling into bed and opening his arms to make room for Alex to put himself in.

It always feels weird to allow himself to so unashamedly be taken care of like this. Weird how guilty it makes him feel to be loved like this, to let himself feel important and cherished, how each soft kiss on his cheek makes him feel equal parts good and guilty, each breath coming out of his mouth heavier than the last. 

“I love you,” he says. “I love you.”

Alex gets his face all wet kissing his forehead, going, “I love you so much. I love you so much.”

—

Alex’s hands are like what it feels like to pick bones up and out of a shallow grave. John is like what it’s like to scrape yourself back together with just a sledgehammer and a handgun. There’s nothing there to build yourself up with, just break down. 

Guess that’s where Alex comes in with his hands and his mouth, them both in bed, him over John, kissing him like he means something, anything, and John keeps trying to kiss him harder than necessary, harder than he likes, just his hard teeth and tongue, putting his hands on him like he’s scared he’s too far away and too close at the same time. 

Alex going “shh” like he’s a frightened rabbit, petting him up and down the sides, kissing slow so he’ll match his breathing to it, like one would sit down longer between steps to ask a horse to slow down his trot, “shhh, baby. Just breathe.” 

Alex putting his hands on his body, John putting his body in his hands, tender and soft, Alex tucking himself into his arms, still kissing him, body moving closer with every breath til he can’t get any closer. Warm in the room even with the A/C on. Summer rustling the leaves of the maple tree just outside. Alex’s breath warm on his neck, John’s arms around him, his body all safe and secure and familiar, so right, all the shapes and contours and textures of his face against the skin of his chest. 

“I love you,” Alex says. It sounds raw and real. 

John half clears his throat. “I love you.”

All these words about how kissing him feels that he’s keeping on sheets of paper in the pockets of his good coats in the hallway closet he wears once a winter. Kissing all year long. Lips to his throat. Teeth to his windpipe. Fingers to his teeth. Pulse to his lips. Heart to his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> as always im on tumblr @ johniaurens


End file.
